


wake up now

by Helenish



Series: Here is a thing that isn't happening. [18]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, underage mumble mumble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-20
Updated: 2011-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-15 19:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helenish/pseuds/Helenish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The job runs according to plan until it doesn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wake up now

**Author's Note:**

> Certain aspects of this story were decided by [audience participation poll](http://helenish.livejournal.com/166314.html).

Jessica wraps up the last of the translation, hugs everyone, even Arthur, and Eames drives her to the train station, and then it’s just down to the last few test runs, cleaning and stripping down the school, finalizing the schedule, confirming with the client, setting up the bribes. Eames watches Arthur, hunched over the model with Nela, or with Tim, out behind the school, showing him how to fold his hands around a gun, goes down into the dream with Arthur, alone, always aware that his window is closing, that Arthur has offered him nothing, not even a way to contact him after next week.

Eames gives Arthur every opportunity to come to him, to find him alone and tilt a little smile in his direction. Arthur doesn’t.

"I’m putting together a job," Eames says, the last day; there’s a hard, breathless feeling in his chest but he forces himself to ignore it. "In three weeks."

Arthur is shredding documents and gives him a blank, polite nod.

"If you’re available," Eames hears himself say. Arthur looks taken aback.

"That’s--scheduling might be pretty tight," he says.

"Right, of course," Eames says, turning away.

*

The job runs according to plan until it doesn’t. Arthur calls him, in the second level; they’re not meant to contact each other other at all, but there’s Arthur’s voice, hoarse and urgent and a little tinny through the phone.

"We’re running into some problems," he says. There’s gunfire in the background, shouting. "Shit," Arthur mutters.

"What do you need," Eames says.

"Meet us at the fallback location," Arthur says. "You can take Tim from there."

The closer Eames comes to the center of the city, the more the projections take notice of him; they don’t attack, but their faces are hollow and unfriendly. Eames keeps his expression bland and slows down until they turn away and and it takes him far too long to burst up the stairs in the rickety little tenement Nela added as a backup meeting point. When he shoulders open the door, Tim is huddled into a corner, clutching Arthur’s gun, waiting. Arthur is dead.

"We need to get moving," Eames says, leaning down and taking the gun out of Tim’s unresisting fingers and yanking him to his feet. "Are you hurt?"

"I don’t--" Tim’s hands are shaking. "Arthur," Tim says, staring past Eames to Arthur's body, a crumpled, bled-out heap on the floor.

"Hey," Eames says, keeping his voice even and calm. The schedule is shot; they don't have time for this. "It’s not real, remember? He’s fine."

"But he just--I fucked up," Tim blurts out. There’s a rapidly purpling bruise on his throat and his left shirtsleeve is soaked with blood. Eames sits him down in the kitchen and starts rummaging through the cupboards to find something to bandage him up. Tim keeps talking, his voice low and shocky. "I did everything wrong and Arthur just, he fixed it--he let them, to save me, and I couldn’t, I--I know we practiced but I couldn’t--"

"Tim," Eames says. Tim closes his mouth. Eames uses a pair of kitchen shears to cut his shirt off at the shoulder; there are a few shallow grazes just above his elbow, nothing serious. "There’s no possible way a few weeks of training could have prepared you for this," Eames tells him. He cleans and binds Tim's arm with a couple dishtowels, working as quickly as he can. Tim is trembling, trying not to flinch away. "We all knew that. Arthur knew that, and he kept you alive so you could finish the job. He won’t be angry."

Tim nods. "My mom had these towels," he says.

"Okay," Eames says. "What’s next?"

"I--um. I’m supposed to translate," Tim says. He’s very pale, but his voice sounds solid, steady. "The records are stuck in the old pneumatic tube system in the basement of city hall."

"Good," Eames says. "That’s good. What else?"

"There’s a--a key, Arthur had a key."

"Did you see where he put it?"

Tim shakes his head, looking miserable.

"All right," Eames says. "Go see if you can find a jacket, something to cover up--you’ll be too conspicuous like that."

Eames waits until Tim is rustling through the front hall closet before he crouches next to Arthur’s body and starts checking his pockets. There’s nothing in his trouser pockets or his external jacket pockets, and when Eames flips open the bloody lapel of Arthur’s jacket, Arthur jerks up underneath him convulsively and catches Eames’ wrist in one shaking hand. Eames’ heart jams up into his throat and it takes him a couple tries to get his voice to work.

"hey, hey," he says, and Arthur struggles against him, glassy-eyed, throwing a couple wild punches into Eames’ stomach and ribcage, hard enough to wind him, using his other hand to twist Eames’ wrist back brutally. Eames doesn’t want to hurt Arthur, but it takes some effort to pull his arm free, and Arthur lets out a low rusty cry and slumps back to the floor.

"Arthur," Eames says. Arthur’s face is creased in pain, and he's gasping for breath. Eames touches his face, puts the edge of his thumb lightly against the hollow of Arthur’s cheek, and Arthur opens his eyes and blinks at him in confusion.

"Eames?" he whispers. "You’re--Eames," he says, reaching for him, wrapping his hand carefully over Eames’ kneecap.

"hi sunshine," Eames says, before he can help himself, and watches a shy smile bloom on Arthur’s face.

"Thought you left," Arthur says softly.

"No," Eames says. "You asked me to meet you here, remember?" Arthur’s face falls.

"No," he says. "No, I wouldn’t. I don’t want to bother you."

"Arthur," Eames says.

"m," Arthur says, and closes his eyes.

"Arthur," Eames says. He slaps his cheek gently, open handed. Arthur’s nose is bleeding and Eames wipes away the blood with his thumb. "Wake up now, I need you with me."

Arthur’s eyes open. "Eames," he says. "You’ll help Tim."

"There you are," Eames says.

"Yes," Arthur says, and turns his face sleepily into Eames’ hand, his cheek tucked against his palm.

"Where’s the key?" Eames says. "Tell me where it is so I can wake you up."

"You got so big," Arthur says wistfully, slurring his words now. "I missed the whole thing."

"Arthur," Eames says. He leans in and brushes Arthur’s hair back off his forehead, holding him still. Arthur’s eyes widen, staring up at him. He licks the corner of his mouth. "Do you have a key?"

"pocket," Arthur says, after a minute. "inside pocket."

He watches mutely while Eames pulls it out, doesn’t move to help.

"Double tap," he says, and puts a finger against his lower lip.

"Hush, now," Eames says.

"If you’re going over to Mal’s after school, leave a note," Arthur says. Blood is running out of his ears, his nose. Eames thumbs open his mouth and slides his gun across Arthur’s lower lip, keeping his hands steady and gentle. Arthur’s mouth is raw and red against the barrel, his eyes relieved. Eames fires and Arthur slumps back, lifeless.

"Let’s go," Eames says. Tim is standing in the doorway wearing a ratty brown sweater, shivering. "Right now," Eames says, stepping away from Arthur’s body and wiping the barrel of his gun on his sleeve.

"I--"

"Next time, check the pulse," Eames says. "Don’t fuck that up again."

*

Eames waits a day after the job is finished, two. It takes him a third day to find an e-mail address he can use. He gets an answer back on the fifth day.  
 _  
Terms are acceptable. Will arrive the 21st._

 _Looking forward to working with you again. A._


End file.
